Highlights and Lowlights - looking back on an amazing journey

The trip ran away with me in the end.  We reached Goa - former hippy colony in the 70s, former Portuguese colony much earlier.  It was the end of a long road across India and back not to mention Nepal and Bhutan.  It was, as I had been warned, a different Goa to the one I had read about.  Russians and "their nieces" (all very good looking, funnily enough . . . ).  I have met many Russians in my time and they were all perfectly nice - but this brand was loud, and brash, and brandishing tattoos.  Hmmm.

Concluding our group trip, we escaped to southern Goa for a few days pampering in a property recommended by a friend of a friend.  Wonderful. A beautiful beach nearby provided perfect R&R (including a 25 mile stretch for running - no, I did not do a marathon but a long run proved very relaxing).

Back in Ireland now and I have been reflecting on how people inquire about the break. Responding to the entreaty "DO, tell all about your holiday" usually commands the attention (even with the most engaging storytelling) for, at most, 2 minutes. (Might start a separate blog to explore the implications of that!)

Anyway, in less than 2 minutes, the highs and lows:

Highs 
- meeting the Boss after 7 weeks' away
- the Taj (just unbeatable)
- Sister Cyril in Loreto Sealdah
- Himalayas (breathtaking)
- the food (especially the cookery course, Bhutanese chilies and so much more)
- the people (especially the cheerfulness of the kids - even in the worst of circumstances)
- the variety (weather, food, activities, monuments, religions, people, transportation, stories. . . )
- the hope (and real change) brought by NGOs to so many

Lows
- the poverty (especially the lack of any chance of any education for so many)
- corruption at all levels
- rubbish and dirt - everywhere
- Indian trains (sorry! great system but grisly conditions)
- roads
- the scarcity of Indian Tonic for that most wonderful of sundowners a Gin and Tonic. . .

If you are in any doubt about trying India, just do it! You won't regret the great adventure that is India.

More train journeys. . .

I don't travel enough by train. That was the unlikely conclusion I reached after a 14 hour trip from Mumbai to Goa. Not because it was luxurious - far from it. No, it was because of a conversation with a remarkable lady.

(For those who read 'Menagerie Express', the story of the 20 hour trip to Kolkata, this is a Pauline conversion. . . )

We boarded from a busy, 30 degree plus, platform at 9.45pm and claimed our berths in the 'air conditioned' coach. The pungent odour of disinfectant was suffocating. I consoled myself that the odour it displaced was probably worse.

Lying on the upper bunk bed, I realised that the air conditioning was to operate only while the train was moving. In the meantime, a small fan provided scant relief from the oppressive heat. Oh well, only an hour and a quarter to go. In no time, the coach took on an uncanny resemblance of a sauna.

No reason, so far, ever to want to do this again.

At the appointed hour, the train jerked into life and began the long, twelve hour journey to Goa (well, that was the promise). A blast of cold air burst forth from the ventilation panel. I wanted to kiss it. Soon, though, I was crawling under the flimsy blanket trying to avoid the relentless icy blast. Why does India insist so vehemently on such contrasts?

Carefully enclosed in my blanket, the gentle rocking of the train and a relaxation exercise quickly released me into the arms of Morpheus.

I awoke around 5am and contemplated my options. Jump down from the top bunk, don my sandals and confidently seek out the loo - or clench my face (and more besides) and hope for a second date with Morpheus Man.

Morpheus had done a runner.

The less said about the trip the better. That, also, is what India is about.

I settled back into the bunk and dozed fitfully for the next couple of hours. Around 8am I conducted a furtive reccy, scanning the passengers who had taken residence below us. An Indian couple, in their 60s, I estimated. She detected my surveillance - "Would you like to sit down here?" she said, beckoning to the lower level. I demurred as politely as I could.

After an hour or so, I clambered down from the upper bunk and smiled the awkward smile of introduction. She was delightful. I got her life story in jig-time, in that wonderfully educated-Indian, English accent. Late sixties, widowed, two children (one in New York, one in Toronto), late husband a senior government official, herself now a dyed in the wool traveller, after suffering a stroke a few years earlier (husband and mother having died within a week of each other). Ah, stern stuff here - no doubt about it.

She regaled me with stories of India: economics, politics, foreign direct investment, tourism, food, flea markets and more. All she needed was the slightest encouragement and the next topic was seized upon with enthusiasm:

- how she had discovered Spanish roots after her husband died (land he owned without title deeds prompted her to unearth the family tree back to a quintessentially Spanish Grandee) in her efforts to secure title and sell the property

- how most politicians were corrupt - salting government money, bribes and more to Swiss and other off-shore accounts

- how she had found a cure in Kerala for symptoms of her stroke (especially for slight paralysis on the left side)

- how to bargain in Goa: take the suggested price and offer one third, settling (reluctantly) for one half

- how to understand the relative purchasing power in India versus New York and the chasm between the two (treat each Rupee as a dollar. . . a bit extreme, I thought, since the current exchange rate is about R50 to $1)

- how she had bought a property in Goa in 1971 for R14,000 and how it was now worth 4.5m crore (an increase of about 300 times)

and lots more besides.

Even when I learned our train was running nearly two hours late it still didn't give me enough time to talk to this remarkable lady.

No two ways about it - I need more train journeys.



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This Indian City (and many like it) is brought to you by the letter . . . . H

Leaving Mumbai, my memories of it are forever linked to the letter H:

Heat - 30 degrees plus at 9.40pm? Yep! That's hot.

Humidity - to open long forgotten sweat glands and sink the heat deep into your bones, humidity of over 70% does the trick . . .

Honking - everywhere in India, honking is the default (watch out Dublin! I may exhibit aggressive tendencies on my return!)

'Have's - the 50 plus private jets parked on the apron as we landed (God knows how many more are stashed away in private hangars) is ample evidence of the affluence in Mombai

'Have not's - the shanty town at the edge of the runway (within sight of all those private jets) is an immediate reminder of the opposite end of the spectrum. Apparently it's the biggest slum in Asia (Slum Dog Millionaire was filmed there)

Haa! - the eternal 'Yes!' offered in response to every question: the culture stoutly resists saying "No" to any question ("Excuse me, can you tell me the way to XYZ?" "Haa!" (clueless! Delightful, but clueless!)

Henna - you may like it, I think it's ghastly - but very fashionable for women to stamp their bodies with ornate patterns using henna dye

Hairdryer - the feeling on your legs in the taxi - the same feeling when you stick your arm out the window to cool down (not!)

Hopeful - the look from every beggar asking for money or chipatis or rice - just to survive

Hilarious - sitting in the back of a speeding Classic Ambassador taxi with no lights, no side mirror, no reason for surviving the mayhem of the city - and living to tell the tale

Hawking - the inevitable body response to omnipresent pollution. India has to have the worst incidence of pulmonary disease in the world?

H(B)ollywood (ok I am cheating a little with this H) - well, Bollywood! What can I say?

Hindu - the ancient religion that boasts 33,000 or three million Gods depending on your personal preference

Hysterical - the feeling you get wondering how you ended up visiting this country of such contradictions

Helpless - the occasional sense of despair you feel when you consider all the poor, starving, illiterate people who simply don't have a chance (as we would think of 'a chance')

Happy - The crazy sense you get that, notwithstanding all the deprivation, people are remarkably resilient and, perhaps, even happy?

What a country!

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Photos - 10

A Buick 8 in one of the old palaces we visited. . .

. . . where the Raj granted private audiences and considered petitions

No, not her bus but a coincidence of intent!

There is no God!

Khushwant Singh starts with a quotation from GB Shaw and promptly embarks on a trail through all the major religions in his cogitation of the best and worst of religions - and the need for a new religion 'without a God'.

A confirmed agnostic and scholar of comparative religions, he provides much food for thought., taking in all the major religions, the holiest of books from each of them and his accounts of current themes and issues.

A different read - worthwhile.

Photos - 9

One of our stops - near Udaipur - beautiful setting for a hotel

The Maharaja throne for hearing public petitions - might just catch?

A prize catch (Tiger looks rightly scared?)

9 meters of cloths makes a turban - no wonder he's happy he managed to get it all tied up again after demonstrating to us!

School in local village

Flourishing

Flourishing.  That’s the new term Martin Seligman, father of positive psychology, has crafted to supersede ‘Happiness’.  You can read all about it in his book of the same title.  In a nutshell, the five elemnent s to cultivate are as follows:

Positive emotion – the pleasant life is what we instinctively think of when asked about increasing happiness.  It is a cornerstone of well-being theory but only one of five separate elements.

Engagement – also known as ‘Flow’, the feeling of time stopping, so engaged are we in what we are doing.

Meaning – belonging to and serving something you believe is bigger than yourself.  This can be religious or secular, really big or just a stretch beyond yourself.

Accomplishment – pursuit of achievement and mastery for its own sake

Positive relationships – other people turn out to be the best antidote to the downs of life and the single most reliable up.

I recommend his book - this is backed by hard science not pop psychology.

Photos - 8

Amber Fort at Jaipur

Elephant rides to the Fort

Sikh Saddhu

Other Saddhus

Infidel

A life story of a Somali woman who rejected Islam and made a life for herself in harrowing circumstances - only to outrage those she criticised to the point of her life being threatened.

For those who know little of the circumstances of women in Islam (as in my case) this is a fascinating and sometimes shocking read.

Recommended.

Photos - 7

Udaipur Palace

Taj Palace Hotel - ultra exclusive and a price to match

Sunset Cruise

Miniature Painting

Udaipur is famous for its miniature painting.  Here a local master concentrates on the finer detail:

Check out the Tiger he painted on my fingernail!

I  decided I had better take a lesson – here is the first output (I know - stick to the day job, Bob!):

Cooking up a storm . . .

You couldn't come to India and not take a cookery class?

Starting with the basics - making Chai!

Old fashioned hospitality

A ride in a US Army 1948 Jeep took us on a 'safari' this morning. Turning off the main (tarmacadam) road we adjusted uncomfortably to the dirt track for a few kilometres before arriving at the nearest local village.

The stone work reminded me of Connemara; everything else was resolutely local: one storey houses, some of concrete, many of mud; dirt roads throughout the village; inevitably shy at first and then smiling locals who stared with genuine curiosity; smiles that revealed mostly misshapen and gappy mouthfuls of betel-stained teeth.

We drove on to the local temple (to Lord Krishna) where a prayer service had just started. Locals were crowded in the small structure, barefoot, hands in supplication, silently mouthing the words of the priest.

Bizarrely, a little motor drove a drum unit comprising a main drum, two cymbals and two smaller drums: Bomp! Bom-Bom! Bomp! while the priest rang a hand bell (like the one we used at school to resume class) chanting loudly from sacred scriptures. All at a deafening level. The pungent smell of burning incense completed the sensory immersion.

We emerged ten minutes later, motor now resting, tinnitus a real possibility.

Beside the temple, a small group of young boys gathered and responded predictably to the Flip video I took of them. They were joined by some turban-clad men who offered themselves for photographs. One of them even demonstrated how to wind a turban from the 9 metre long cloth. Friendly. Smiling their toothy smiles with bad teeth. Welcoming.

Driving back to the village we parked to explore by foot.  To our surprise, we were invited into one of the houses.  Chai was immediately produced followed quickly by an offer to visit the various parts of their house.  We had to graciously decline an offer of lunch before taking our leave, slightly embarrassed at the spontaneous hospitality - especially amidst such obvious poverty.

Food for thought, you might say.

Headed for the Taj - misty eyed

5am departure for the 0615 Super Express train to Agra (195 km).

What first appeared as early morning mist has turned into pea-soup fog, the likes of which I have not seen for decades. A one hour 57 minute journey expands to over four hours, our Super Express reduced to tentative rumbling.

Concerns that we might not see the Taj unless it was within touching distance dissolved as the sun burned through the fog.


Simply breathtaking.


Perfectly proportioned.


Glittering in the bright sunshine.


It is simply stunningly beautiful.


Just like the last time we were here, 27 years ago.

 

                                                                                 Not exactly a Lady Di pose, Siobhan?

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Cosy touring

Joining a new tour group is always filled with apprehensive excitement: how many people? what ages are they? what sort of background do they come from? who's quiet and who's loud? how will we get on together on the trip?

6pm. Friday 18th. The appointed time had arrived.

Mia - the corporate finance paralegal, from Toronto.

Suzanne - the train driver from the Hunter Valley, Australia.

And us.

Mayank, a 27 year old native, was to be our guide.

Cosy!


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Palatial surroundings

Kaurali. Never heard of it before. But there's a palace there belonging to the Maharajah. And we stayed there.

Apparently all the Maharajahs and Rajahs (Kings in their kingdoms) had to give up their lands and palaces at the time of independence (1947). Our Maharajah was no different. But he inherited the property at a relatively young age and decided he head better convert it to a "Heritage Property" to make a few bob.

We met the "Queen" who, it turns out, is also the local Mayor. She is a formidable lady. Apart from running the Palace as a Heritage Property and running the local Council, she also manages an extraordinary amount of charitable work including a mobile hospital and an amazing 96 local schools. She was hugely critical of corruption in Indian politics and said that was why she concentrated on helping the local people.

Only the palace we stayed in was only the new palace. We also visited the grand palace. Wow! Not an exclamation I use lightly - in it's time (the oldest part of the palace is 700 years old) it must have been spectacular - its features included:

- separate winter and summer palace sections
- elaborate wall paintings
- a Royal Temlple
- a swimming pool
- ornate gardens with fountains
- a Royal Hamam
- a dance theatre
- a grand hall for public audience and an interior one for private audiences
- and much much more

India keeps surprising.


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Delhi Belhi

The last time I was in Delhi, she left me a little legacy for the plane trip home - the dreaded Delhi Belhi. I had arrived at the airport very early, checked in and proceeded to the departure lounge. Whereupon I realised that certain medication that would be particularly (and urgently) welcome was now, of course, in my checked in baggage. I had no choice but to become intimately familiar with the Gentlemen's facilities.

Once on board, I enquired as quietly as I could of the stewardess if she had a first aid kit. She was understandably preoccupied with boarding passengers but her loud protestations that she had "Nothing at all for diarrhoea!" was neither the answer I wanted, nor the discretion I had hoped for.

I slumped back in my seat, mentally calculating how many steps were required to the nearest toilet for later emergencies when a passenger in row ahead of me leaned over and said "You must be taking this, Sir!"

The foil wrapped tablet could have been anything. I looked at this kind Indian gentleman and made my decision instantly. I ripped the foil open and swallowed the unrecognisable capsule without another thought. It was the answer to my prayers.

When Mayank, our guide, suggested we would be trying food from street vendors, my cheeks clenched involuntarily.

Lentil patties, deep fried.

Freshly brewed Indian Chai.

Paranatha (a type of bread) cooked with a filling of your choice in front of you.

The temptations went on and on.

And were all consumed.

Delicious.

Not a piece of foil to be seen anywhere.

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Delhi Delicacies

Claridges boasted three excellent restaurants but the best eating was in nearby restaurants/hotels.

The Imperial is the best example of Colonial Glory you could find anywhere and their High Tea is to die for: Gazpacho and other liquid temptations, tasty morsels on croissants (from smoked salmon to Parma ham), sandwiches of every description (from mandatory cucumber to Ementhal with chutney, and others too many to mention), and a range of sweeties designed to test (and defeat) your self control (dark chocolate dominating the agenda).


Bukhara (in the Marauli Sheraton) offers North West fare (stronger flavours) and the novelty of no cutlery. Lamb kebabs, Dahl (lentils and other beans slowly cooked overnight), delicious breads (roti, naan, parnatha and more) - the list went on and on.

The Taj Mahal has five restaurants and the Indian one we tried was spectacular. Not only was the food wonderful, it was presented with artistic flair. The Taj also boasted a wine list that would challenge a Michelin starred restaurant in Dublin.

So much fine dining, so little time!


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Sharma-ing the fish from the sea. . .

Sharma was our Auto driver and he smelled business.

"When did you arrive?" Friendly smile flashes in the rear view mirror.

"How long you stay in Delhi?" (No messing around.)

"How much you pay?" (This in response to our deflecting comment that we had already booked a bus tour for the next day (a bare-faced lie but our way of saying "Stop hustling us!"))

"I will charge you only 500 Rupees (about 7 euro) for the whole day. I will take you to the best places. You can come and go as you please?" (Entreating.)

His English was excellent, his driving good (by Indian standards), his Auto clean, and his logic unassailable. We agreed.

Old Delhi, old mosques, temples, museums - we saw the lot. At our leisure. Delhi was shown off at her best.

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The Eagle lands

EY218. Expected arrival time 0310. Indira Gandhi International airport.

Who booked that ticket? (Me.)

The airport is far from quiet when I arrive shortly after 2.30am (the journey out took far less time than expected).

80 Rupees visitor ticket! I tried to explain that my wife was the visitor, I was the dutiful husband collecting her.

A nod of the head from side to side. "And you must be buying a ticket, Sir"

I paid up, smiled and nearly nodded my own head from side to side.

The plane arrived on time but got misdirected on the apron. Too long a story to tell. Arrived back to the hotel at 5am.


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Shocking Impressions of New Delhi

Big modern airport. Air conditioned. Meaningful signs. Systems for taxis.

Smooth tarmacadam. Street lights. Road markings. Green and White street signs. Grand boulevards.

Later: temples, monuments, museums, galleries, heritage, history.

Chalk. And Cheese. I realise now how shocking Kolkata really was.




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Signs of insecurity

If there is one thing worse than no security, it's a false sense of security. The airport at Kolkata reminded me. Everything about security was a nonsense:

- shortly after entering the airport, I had to put my main bag through a scanner (but not my backpack). Claiming the bag on the other side, the airport operative attached a little sticker (the bag wasn't locked, I had control of it, my daypack wasn't checked, oh! how utterly inconclusive!)

- at check-in, the bag weighed in at 24kg. Big financial penalty, apparently, but I could transfer some items to my daypack (latter neither scanned not weighed). Oh, now re-scan your big bag please. I walked back to the big scanner (about 100m) did the business and promptly transferred a heavy book from my daypack back to the bag. It could have been C4.

- bag finally deposited (no problem!), I lined up at the metal detector. The alarm promptly sounded and after a perfunctory search (cause of alarm undiagnosed) I continued to the departure gate. I was not asked to go through the scanner again.

What a waste of effort. And completely ineffective, to boot.

Grrr! I hate bad design.



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Whodunnit?

Everyone loves a whodunnit. And what better territory than figuring out why people behave as they do?

Harold Klawans is a brain detective - trained as a neurologist, he is also a gifted writer. As a storyteller, he draws on decades of clinical experience to inform and challenge.

His book "Strange behaviour - tales of evolutionary biology" is a gem. The 'Aha' moments for me include the following:

- the critical importance of the 'window of learning' (up to the age of about 14) after which the brain 'prunes' its own pathways, abandoning those it reckons are superfluous. If you don't acquire language by that age, you will never acquire proficiency thereafter. Similarly, it is vastly easier to acquire a second language (or third or fourth) or a motor skill (such as playing an instrument) if you start before 14. It's not impossible afterwards, just much harder (having taken up the piano some years ago, I now realise why I had to practice so much!)

- how handedness (right or left) is basically inherited but also acquired. About 90 per cent of people are right handed (left brain dominant) based on an inherited bias; the other 10 per cent inherit a non-bias (thus becoming either right or left handed) or are pathologically left handed (they have a problem in the brain that stops them becoming right handed). (I can see my better half and my son arguing in future that they are neurologically non-biased. . .)

- how symptoms of Parkinson's Disease manifest in related but separate conditions. Klawans is especially good at explaining the process of differential diagnosis (a skill, based on my experience, evident only in the best doctors).

- why are brains are simply not designed to read subtitles while watching a movie (two very different parts of the brain required, apparently)

- how literacy changes the brain (he describes a case where a neurologist diagnosed severe neurological damage but Klawans' examination concluded the opposite. This has to do with the way oral cultures, with no knowledge or use of writing, handle information and knowledge completely differently from those where literacy, especially writing, is deeply embedded. The first neurologist failed to take into account the illiteracy of his patient)

- how identifying an unbalanced diet (in this case excessive consumption of leafy vegetables!) explained why a rare recessive gene triggered Refsum's disease (I never heard of it either!). Brings a new perspective to "Eat your greens!"

- how the development of CJD was identified (particularly from insights into a disease called kuru in Papua New Guinea (due to cannibalism)).

Klawans is the author of six other non fiction books (I can recommend them all!)



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Trading - Kolkata style

A selection of traders plying their wares:

Fish left to dry in the sun

Dead interesting

Funny how a cemetery can be such an interesting place?  I had the same experience last year in Buenos Aires where an old cemetery kept me entertained for a few hours (Irish connections, naturally). After a long walk in hot, hot weather, I arrived at the South Park cemetery located in the heart of the city to search out another Irish connection: Charles 'Hindoo' Stewart.

Major-General Charles Stuart (c. 1758 – 31 March 1828) was an officer in the East India Company Army and is well known for being one of the few British officers to embrace Hindu culture while stationed there, earning the nickname Hindoo Stuart. He was allegedly the son of Thomas Smyth (eldest son of Charles Smyth (1694–1783), MP for Limerick, and Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Thomas Prendergast, 1st Baronet).  In his teens, Stuart left Ireland for India, where he remained for the rest of his life, embracing the Hindu culture and eventually earning his nickname. Starting as a cadet, he rose through the ranks to become a Major-General.

Major V. C. P. Hodson's biography of Stuart mentions that he "had studied the language, manners and customs of the natives of this country with so much enthusiasm, his intimacy with them ... obtained for him the name of Hindoo Stuart".

Stuart adopted several Hindu customs, including bathing in the Ganges at Calcutta every morning, amassing a collection of deities as well as Indian clothes. He even encouraged European ladies in India to adopt the sari (through "frequent and vigorous" contributions to the daily Calcutta Telegraph in the year 1800) and Indian sepoys to wear full mustaches on parade. His commander-in-chief "ticked him off" due to his partiality towards sepoys sporting "Rajput mustaches or brightly colored caste marks on their foreheads".

Hindoo Stewart's Tomb

He published his letters extolling the virtues of "elegant, simple, sensible, and sensual" Indian saris vis-a-vis "the prodigious structural engineering Europeon (sic) women strapped themselves into in order to hold their bellies in, project their breasts out and allow their dresses to balloon grandly up and over towards the floor" along with some replies by "outraged" white women in a "deliciously silly volume" entitled The Ladies Monitor, Being A Series of Letters First published in Bengal On the Subject of Female Apparel Tending to Favour a regulated adoption of Indian Costume And a rejection of Superfluous Vesture By the Ladies of this country With Incidental remarks on Hindoo Beauty, Whale-Bone Stays, Iron Busks, Indian Corsets, Man-Milliners, Idle Bachelors, Hair-Powder, Waiting Maids, And Footmen. Some of the reasons he cites for European women to give up iron busks are: Firstly wearing iron busks makes women highly susceptible to lighting strikes (exhorting them with sentences such as "This is no laughing matter ladies for I am absolutely serious"). Secondly by discarding iron busks from their wardrobes, European women would immensely enhance the supply of iron in Bengal for farmers who desperately need new wagon wheels.

Stuart died on 31 March 1828 and was buried with his idols at the South Park Street Cemetery in Calcutta^[4], in a tomb which took the form of a Hindu temple.

Don't you just love the Irish?!


====================================

Two other epitaphs typical of the cemetery:

Images of the Sunderbans - Photos 6

Major Intensity and the Sardines

Three hours ahead on a difficult journey to the Sunderbans. Even a Jeep becomes an intimate enclosure. Sitting beside the driver, there's plenty to talk about; plenty to give out about; plenty, simply, to share.

Not a word. Not a single word. Even when invited. Just a solemn expression - almost unseeing which, for a driver, is an unsettling concept.

It wasn't as if he didn't speak English (that slipped out late on the return trip).

It's something I had noticed about other taxi drivers - a certain intensity of expression. Difficult to characterise: detached indifference? sullen resentment? indignant xenophobia? So different to the average Dublin Taxi driver who, even in the space of a short journey, typically gave you his life history, found out your's or managed to express a view on every major world problem and political dilemma. My man's Intensity wasn't ordinary - his was Major.

So I took to observing Major Intensity. Quietly, of course - the last thing I wanted was to promote the Major.

You might think that such intensity might quickly escalate to aggression, given the nudge of aggravating road rage? But despite the most outrageous behaviour of other road users (typically pulling out directly in front of the Major), there wasn't a word of objection from him - let alone an expletive (I have been known to resort to AngloSaxon monosyllables at such times. . .)

The return to Kolkata proved the point. The trip to the Sunderbans had been absorbing but tiring: 30-plus degrees, often little shelter from the direct rays of the sun, I was weary by the time I climbed into the front seat of the Jeep.

You would have been forgiven for thinking the Major had a hot date in Kolkata. The horses were not spared. And on Kollata roads, that means hair-raising encounters at every turn - oh, and on the straight sections too.

Some might expect that the infrastructure between a megacity of 15m and a discrete region of over 4m might boast some impressive tar? Nothing of the sort. Often little more than a single lane each way, the road was brutal: poor surface, crowded, unmarked. And full of bends. The prospect of negotiating this Highway from Hell back to Kolkata, in the dark, filled me alternatively with a urgent need to sleep (blotting out the trip to Hades) and to sit bolt upright, my hand a claw on my seatbelt, feet desperately pressing an imaginary brake. My confidence in the Major shaken, I settled down for an uncomfortably conscious bird's eye view of the whole return journey.

As dusk approached, I had managed to convince myself that the driving was pretty much the same as the journey down. It was the overtaking on blind corners that shocked me back to reality.

On a quick reckoning, I estimated that about half of all vehicles sported a light of some sort. When overtaking, we were absolutely dependent on our lights to illuminate any unlit oncoming vehicle. It might be a cyclist or a 5 ton truck. Fair enough? Good lights, good acceleration, good braking? Good God!

The first adrenalin shot through my system when we were overtaking a car that itself was overtaking an Auto - with all three of us approaching a blind corner. The oncoming unlit vehicle appeared (in our headlights) only at the last moment. Major Intensity braked briefly, jinked left and then gunned the Jeep out of harm's way without drawing breath. And never looked in my direction afterwards. Or said a thing. Anglo-Saxon or otherwise.

He's either semi-catatonic or else juiced up so high that he doesn't know he's here, I thought.

But the Major wasn't finished surprising me. After two tortuous hours' driving, we slowed to a halt in a traffic jam and settled behind some Sardines, cunningly disguised as 50 or so men crammed into the back of a TATA truck. Across the back of the truck they writhed in each other's sweat, in rude good humour. I couldn't bring myself to imagine what it felt like to be stuck in the middle of this heaving mound of humanity.

Having nudged forward only a few metres some of the Sardines, spotting the Major, started some boisterous shouting and taunting, the sort grown men are prone to when consorting in large groups. The Intensity meter didn't budge. Equanimity personified.

At least a dozen times, the Major restarted the engine, moved a metre or two back behind the Sardines and then turned the engine off, to the renewed taunts of the Sardines. Not a flicker from him. I began to wonder if the Major was related to Mr Spock.

Eventually, traffic started to move (the delay had been a rail crossing) and the Major overtook the Sardines, testing their boisterous good humour with a cloud of dust the size of a small nuclear explosion.

Back in Kolkata, exhausted, I step into a much needed shower thinking the Major's expression probably remained changed.

Penny for your thoughts Major?

The many faces of Kolkata

Thursday evening. I am ostensibly finished at Sabuj Sangha, albeit a visit to the Sunderbans tomorrow awaits me.

I find myself reflecting on the many faces of Kolkata:

- echoes of a Bohemian past in the Fairlawn Hotel and the incomparable 91 year old Miss Violet (who tried to seduce me to become her toy boy)

- the extraordinary grandeur of the Victoria Memorial and the 17 mile train that would have been required to bring the materials required to build it

- the vastness of the megacity that is Kolkata: squadrons of taxis, teeming people that defy description, modern office blocks and decrepitude beyond description

- the shocking contrasts of brand new Mercedes 500s and poverty on a scale I have never witnessed before

- pollution that destroys lungs (especially in taxi drivers it seems, given their hawking and spitting)

- the cocoon of pampered plushness that is the Oberoi Grand - an oasis right in the centre of the city that tricks you into thinking 5 star treatment is absolutely ordinary

- the extraordinary kindness and good works of Sister Cyril, Sabuj Sangha and so many more to look after those who have nothing:Rainbow kids, brickfields migrants, red light outcasts and more

- the inexplicable bureaucracy that requires a computer produced order in triplicate (with good old fashioned carbon paper in between) for a bar of Bournville (oh, and complete separation of duties (auditors, all, rejoice!) between recording the order and later taking payment - God protect us!)

This IS reality. This is NOW. And shall be long after I am back in the comforting bosom of my family in Dublin.

How strange a world.




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Heading for the Sunderbans . . .

The NGO I am working with targets its efforts on the Sunderbans in West Bengal.  The Sunderbans has a population of over 4 million but much of it is mostly free of permanent human habitation.  It is one of the most densely populated areas in the world.

Sunderban is famous for its scenic beauty, vast openness, thick mangrove forests, tigers, crocodiles - and is considered a favorite tourist. It is located in the southernmost part of West Bengal.

The inhabited islands always bear the risk of breach in earthen embankments and resultant prolonged saltwater water inundation. Cyclones are common – with devastating effects. 

Basic infrastructural facilities are lacking in the entire region – no roads, bridges, public transport system, electricity and hospitals in most of the islands. Lack of job opportunity, monocrop cultivation, absence of industries and havoc caused by frequent natural calamities render people homeless – cashless – and extremely vulnerable. 

Life in the Sunderbans is tough as these statistics testify:

• population density is a staggering 1437 (Ireland: 60) per square kilometer
• literacy is less than 35%
• the average income of poor families is Euro 19 per MONTH
• 56% of people are landless
• most communities do not have electricity or safe drinking water
• 45% of women and 38% of men are underweight
• at least 28% pregnant women near term weigh less than 45 kg (about 7 stone)
• 66% women are anemic
• there is not a single equipped dental clinic anywhere - toothaches are treated by extraction in 'local clinics'
• 62% girls get married before 18 years age; of these, 30% deliver their first child before 19 years.
• Sunderban witnesses over 1500 suicidal (deliberate self harm) attempts every year (85% by consuming pesticides).

I'm heading there tomorrow. . .

Water, Water, Everywhere!

Abseiling with abandon! (from the Last Resort trip in Nepal)

Photos - Part 5



A sleeping goat waiting for a train - you're kidding?



A porter with perfect carriage (him - not the train) - carrying my 60lb bag on his head - ouch!

Anyone for a nice cup of tea?



Petal Power - marigolds in abundance for the Diwali Festival




Sleeping on the job - in 35 degrees and 100% humidity who could blame them



Festival statue (straw covered in mud) under construction

A colourful street trader



Have rickshaw - will carry world if necessary